Page 118 of Sweet Wicked Vows

Bourbon scorched the back of my throat, temporarily filling the aching emptiness consuming me.

She told me to leave her alone, and against every single natural instinct, I tried. Ireallytried. But as the minutes ticked tirelessly by without her, I couldn’t stand it any longer.

I had to see her.

I told myself if I saw her again, if I got my chance to explain everything to her, I’d take it with both hands and run.

Ambushing her was a cheap shot, but I was desperate.

Seeing her again was like catching a glimpse of heaven from the deepest pits of hell.

When the tears stained her cheeks and the aching ripples of heartache pierced her eyes, I knew I’d do anything never to witness her like that again.

It was all my fault.

At the start of our marriage, I tricked myself into believing that she was a mere casualty, a bystander unable to dodge the blast radius, but as time went on and I fell hopelessly in love with her, I didn’t do enough to shield her from the impending danger.

I’d sell my soul to the devil twofold to erase the pain I caused her.

But I was a complete fool for ever allowing myself to love you, and I will never forgive myself for that.

I realized at that moment that letting her go, though I hated it, was the right thing to do. She deserved someone who wouldn’t hurt her. Someone who made her cry with laughter not pain. Someone who didn’t realize they loved her too late.

Alcohol-tinged bile coated my tongue, thinking about her with another man.

“Another.” I raised the empty glass at the bartender. “Double.”

I knocked back the bourbon, the burning long gone, and motioned for another.

Perhaps with enough alcohol, Evelyn’s tears would no longer haunt me.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

Of-fucking-course—because my day couldn’t have gotten even the tiniest bit better.

There was a reason I chose to drink in one of the dingiest dive bars in the city. No music. No talking. No one to annoy me.

Silence and loneliness.

The two things that used to bring me comfort.

Olivier perched himself on the barstool beside me. “That’s your tenth bourbon. Maybe you should slow down? Or I can call you a cab if you want?”

“Thanksmaman.I think you’ll find I am perfectly capable of deciding when I’m ready to stop.”

“Is this the plan?” He grabbed my glass before me. “To drink your problems away?”

“It’s cheaper than therapy. Plus, drinking alone usually involves a whole lot less talking.”

Olivier scoffed. “God forbid you talked about what’s wrong with you. I thought you were flying back to Ontario?”

That was the original plan. Get on the next flight out of New York and back to my old life waiting for me.

Stick to the plan we laid out from the beginning.

As Benny drove toward the airport, white-hot pokers lodged themselves in my diaphragm. My skin crawled underneath my clothes, my blood hummed loudly throughout my body with each mile we got closer until even my vision failed me.

Though my mind told me to just get on the plane, my body violently rejected the idea.

---